Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  As he drove, Sadie had a chance to study him. She never really got a chance to look at him except for quick looks when they were in meetings. He was tan, which made him look handsome, made his eyes bluer and deeper. His eyes always seemed so laserlike that it gave him a steely look, especially when he wasn’t smiling. From the side his mouth looked gentle and his face kind. She had an irresistible urge to stroke his cheek.

  They came to a small grove of scrub oak trees right off the dunes, on a small promontory overlooking the ocean. The sun was low by now, and the air a bit cooler, as the breezes were coming from the water. They left the pickup on the dunes and took their picnic bag to the grove. In front of them lay the dunes, and as they approached the promontory they could hear the rumbling of horses’ hoofs. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, came a small herd of wild ponies, pale whites and grays running and prancing in the sand. Just as quickly they disappeared in a cloud. Michael and Sadie were both left breathless by this magical apparition. The grove served as the entranceway into the forest behind them. It was quite dense, with scruffy trees and bushes, then it became almost enchanted, as the scrubs were replaced by live oaks, replete with Spanish moss and wild berry trees.

  Michael was the first to spot the path, and without saying anything he entered it, beckoning her to follow.

  Soon they were deep into the woods, brushing moss away from them in front as they followed the narrow path. The only sounds they heard were the whippoorwills and the scratching of armadillos against the trees.

  After about ten minutes they came to a small clearing. They both stood a bit awkwardly for a moment, then Michael, with a sudden sense of purpose, cleared away some brush, smoothed the sand, and made a small cushion of moss. He sat down and patted the sand next to him.

  When they were seated she looked at him and he met her eyes for the first time that day. She blushed and looked down, making small patterns in the sand.

  He pulled something out of his pocket and held it in front of her so that she could see it with her eyes lowered. It was a small box, carefully wrapped and tied with a ribbon.

  “Happy birthday,” he said.

  She looked up at him in surprise. He was smiling as if anticipating her surprise.

  “What did I do to deserve this?” she asked. She hadn’t intended that tone.

  “Put up with me as a friend.”

  “Since when did we become humble?”

  “Open it.”

  She opened the package carefully. Inside was a plain fluted glass containing a flat candle.

  She looked up, puzzled. “What?”

  “It’s a Yahrzeit candle. You burn it on the first anniversary of the death.”

  He took out a package of matches.

  “Light it.”

  “Am I allowed to touch it?”

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I apologize. You were made uncomfortable in my home and that’s unforgivable. Especially at Passover.”

  She didn’t say anything. She just took the small candle, set it in the sand, and lit it as he had told her. Then she looked at him quizzically. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, though she sensed that the moment was solemn.

  He began to chant in Hebrew, his voice a lilting, singsong sound as he prayed.

  She felt somewhat embarrassed. She didn’t understand what he was saying. She didn’t know where to look. Then the prayer began to take hold of her and she found the haunting sound hypnotic and especially moving. She felt as though she were in a trance, not just because of Michael’s voice, but because of the eerie setting and the hush of the forest. She was overcome with images of Rosey—when they first met, their wedding, when the children were born, his election as governor of Virginia, then as Vice President. She remembered the day that Roger had been stricken and Rosey had been sworn in as President. She could see Rosey’s face when she told him she was leaving him for Des, remembered that he had wept and begged her to stay. She saw his joy when she told him she was pregnant and how delighted and happy he was at the birth of Willie. She remembered the birthday party a year ago, Rosey smiling and happy, so secretive and smug about his present for her one minute, and then the shock on his face and the blood everywhere. And finally, Rosey telling her he loved her and that he knew Willie was not his son. She felt such a rush of anguish she didn’t think she could bear it.

  From a distance she heard her voice keening and she felt the tears.

  Michael put his arms around her and held her until she stopped crying.

  “Do you want to talk?” he asked her after a while.

  “Yes,” she said. “I want to tell you about Willie.”

  * * *

  She talked for almost an hour. It was odd, her doing the talking. Usually it was the other way around. She needed to tell someone she trusted. She talked about Rosey and her feelings for him. She told him about Des and Willie and the breakup with Des both times, including just before she went to La Samanna.

  When she finished her story, Michael, without a word, built a little mound around the candle so it couldn’t set fire to the brush.

  Then he stood up and took her hand.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and pulled her toward the path to the beach.

  She turned to look at the Yahrzeit candle flickering softly.

  “Goodbye, Rosey,” she whispered.

  * * *

  It was almost six, but she had told Jed that they would be back by dark, so they had a while. They were still holding hands when they emerged from the forest onto the bluff overlooking the dunes. Oddly, after all her fantasizing about making love, she only wanted to be close to him now. To have him hold her or touch her. She was feeling devoid of sexuality. It was such a relief for a change, considering that for six months she had been practically obsessed with the idea of going to bed with him.

  She was ravenous and so was he. They opened their picnic baskets and took out sandwiches and deviled eggs and finished off the fried chicken. They hardly talked at all while they were eating. They had bouts of silences, followed by bouts of talking, followed by more silence. All they could hear now was the sound of the waves splashing up on the beach. For as far as they could see the beach was deserted. They were completely alone.

  “Well,” she said, when she had finished eating. “I must say, it did feel good to be the one talking for a change.”

  “Just as I was beginning to go soft on you,” he laughed, “you turn on me.”

  “I know how difficult it must have been for you, poor baby. Doing all that listening. But now it’s your turn. Talk to me. Tell me about yourself. Why are Jewish men so funny?”

  “We’re more able to laugh at ourselves because we’ve felt exclusion and pain. That’s why there are so many Jewish comedians. To survive you’ve got to find humor in life. You have to be able to laugh at your predicament.”

  “You keep talking about pain. I don’t really understand what you mean. Look how successful you are. Being Jewish hasn’t hurt you at all. Actually, I’d say you were in hog heaven.”

  “You know what they say?” he flashed her a wicked smile.

  “I give up. What do they say?”

  “When you’re in love, the whole world looks Jewish.”

  * * *

  By the time they got back everyone had gone to bed. It was after nine. They were both exhausted. Earlier in the day, especially after their conversation, it had seemed that there might have been another romantic encounter like at La Samanna. But the day had been too emotional for that. The longer and the better she knew him, the more reluctant she was to chance ruining what they had with physical intimacy. It was certainly an unusual situation. Like some sort of long Victorian engagement. She had the conviction that if she went to bed with him now he would never see her again. There were barriers of trust that had to be overcome. Their talk had convinced her even more.

  They said goodnight in the living room. There had really been no need to convince him to stay overnight because it was too late
and he was too tired to drive back to Jacksonville. She had even convinced him to drive with her to Savannah the next morning, meet her parents, and take a plane from there.

  “I’ll send Willie in to wake you in the morning,” she said. “Just in case you have a hard time getting up.”

  “Oh, great,” he said, laughing. “Just what I was going to suggest.”

  “Unless you’d rather have me.”

  “I’d rather have you.”

  They were in that strange zone of double entendre that always left them so unbalanced.

  They were standing rather close together in the dimly lit room, both wrinkled, sweaty, sandy, hot, and slightly sunburned from their outing. He had never looked more attractive to her.

  He reached out, almost in spite of himself, and brushed her tangled hair out of her eyes.

  “It was a nice day, wasn’t it,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice catching. “The whole world looked Jewish.”

  * * *

  The day after Sadie’s birthday and the first anniversary of Rosey’s death was the Fourth of July. Sadie’s parents had gone to their beach cottage at Tybee, known more formally as Savannah Beach, some twenty miles out of town on the ocean.

  Instead of driving to Savannah, their little group—Sadie, Michael, Willie, Monica, Jenny, and the agents—went directly to Tybee, where Sadie’s parents were planning a picnic for Willie before the fireworks.

  The cottage was a small informal white wooden house with a screened-in porch overlooking the ocean. At the end of the narrow street leading up to the beach, it was virtually indistinguishable from most of the other houses around it, all of them surrounded by swaying palms and picket fences, all of them on raised stilts to protect them from flooding. Tybee was not exactly Newport, but it was the only good beach near Savannah and therefore the fashionable beach, despite the size of the cottages and their close proximity to each other.

  Sadie adored Tybee. She had spent her summers there since she was a child, there and in Statesboro, and it held only the sweetest memories. Tybee was boardwalks and jukeboxes, the smells of hamburgers and french fries, suntan oil and “co-colas,” bare feet and sunburns, sandy sheets and fireflies, sunsets and the soothing sound of the ocean. Tybee was palm trees and laziness and Southern accents and very, very Protestant.

  Tybee was everything that was strange and foreign to Michael Lanzer, and she could feel his uneasiness as they walked into her parents’ cottage.

  Her mother couldn’t have been more cordial. Too cordial. She nearly talked him to death, offered him boiled peanuts and Cokes every other minute. Her father was remote; his politeness was forced, to say the least. It was obvious that neither one of them could wait until he was gone. Michael clearly felt the same way. He kept glancing at his watch, finally standing up after about an hour and announcing that he had a plane to catch. Sadie knew his plane wasn’t until much later but she didn’t protest.

  She walked him out to the porch and shrugged a helpless apology.

  “Well, at least you didn’t touch the candlesticks,” she said.

  His face, which had been so open and receptive yesterday, last night, this morning, had closed on her. A little veil had come down over his eyes. The wall had gone up. The gates were closed. Their whole relationship was like a game of Simon Says. Simon Says take two baby steps forward. Simon Says take one giant step backward.

  “More importantly,” he said, “I didn’t touch you.”

  She put out her hand, almost as a challenge.

  He took it and she looked directly at him as she squeezed tightly.

  “I promise I won’t tell,” she whispered.

  * * *

  Monica and Jenny had taken Willie to the beach along with a picnic lunch.

  Sadie was ravenous, so her mother got out the fried chicken and pimento cheese sandwiches and sweetened iced tea and the three of them sat down in silence and began to eat. The silence became more and more uncomfortable. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “So, how d’y’ all like Michael?”

  They both looked at each other.

  “Mama? Daddy?”

  “He certainly seems like a fine doctor. I’m sure he’s brilliant, finding that drug, what is it? AZT that can help AIDS? Although I’m not so sure I would want to work with that virus. You just never know what can happen. Why I read in the paper just the other day about a nurse in some hospital who got stuck with a needle. I mean one little stick and…”

  Her father hadn’t said a word. He was gnawing on a drumstick.

  “Mama, didn’t you think he was attractive?”

  “He’s certainly not ugly, for heaven’s sake. I mean he’s not my type, but I can understand that… but I don’t see what difference it makes…”

  “I’m in love with him.”

  There was dead silence.

  “Well, don’t you have anything to say at all?” Her voice was shrill. She was more upset than she had thought she would be. She didn’t know what she had expected. Maybe that they would be happy for her after the tragedy she had experienced, knowing that she had somebody. Or at least sort of had somebody. She hadn’t told them anything about him, just that he was going to Beau Rivage and she was bringing him by to meet them. But they had to have figured something out. Now they just looked at her in shock.

  “Sadie, darlin’,” her mother said finally. “The man is married.”

  “Daddy?”

  He finished chewing his chicken bone and set it down on the plate. He carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin, then deliberately wiped each finger. When he had finished he put his napkin on the table and looked at her.

  “That’s not the only problem,” he said, almost impatiently, to her mother.

  “What is it then?” asked Sadie.

  “He’s Jewish,” said her father.

  * * *

  Des was the last person she expected to hear from when she picked up the telephone.

  It was the last week in July and she was packing to go up to Easthampton for August. Normally she would have spent a large part of June and July there, certainly weekends, and this year she and Willie had been up for a few weekends already. But there was something depressing about being at a resort when you were alone or in mourning. It just didn’t work. The whole point was to relax and have a good time. That’s just not what she felt. Besides, she had two things to keep her in Washington despite the heat and the humidity. One was her AIDS project, which had become practically a full-time job now.

  Freddy Osgood had agreed to let her keep her old office in the old Executive Office Building that Rosey had designated for her when she was First Lady. He had also provided a secretary for her. She was now an official member of the President’s Commission on AIDS. Not only that, but Freddy was being almost pathologically solicitous of Michael. Whatever the National Cancer Institute wanted, they got. And he had put a number one presidential priority on AIDS research.

  Blanche was going along full blast with her Live AIDS concerts, which had been Sadie’s idea and had given her a wonderful project. It had taken her out of Washington, put her on the front pages with positive press, and effectively gotten her out of Sadie’s way. Sadie was now representing the First Lady and the commission was more or less under her control. It was interesting and distracting. It also put her in constant contact or communication with Michael. At least on the phone.

  Michael was the other reason she wanted to be in town. Not that anything was happening there. Their relationship had resumed its abstract state after his visit to Georgia.

  He wasn’t ready to leave his marriage. She hadn’t finished mourning Rosey. She hadn’t dealt with her guilt about Des and Willie. She wasn’t sure she was completely over Des. The obsession she had had for Michael wasn’t normal, it wasn’t healthy, it wasn’t realistic. She needed to heal herself before she thought about loving someone else.

  “Congratulations,” she said when she picked up the phone and
heard Des’s voice. “I hear Allison is pregnant.”

  She was surprised that her heart had started beating faster.

  “Yes. We’re having a baby girl. We just found out.”

  What he didn’t say was that Willie was having a baby sister. What he didn’t say was that he wasn’t disappointed at not having a boy because he already had a son. Des had once expressed his disappointment to her about never having had a son. He really didn’t like his daughter, Fiona, now in her twenties. She was Chessy’s daughter all the way, he had said, a spoiled little rich girl ashamed of her father’s poor Boston Irish upbringing, ashamed of his family. “Every man wants a son,” he had once said to Sadie. When they had actually talked about her leaving Rosey he had fantasized about their having a son. With two nearly grown children, the idea of a baby in her forties appalled Sadie, but she never let on to Des. It was ironic that she had accidentally gotten pregnant and then had to raise the child as Rosey’s.

  “That’s wonderful, Des.” She really meant it. She had known Allison was pregnant. Why was she so thrilled it was a girl? Because it kept Willie special to him. For whatever that was worth. He never saw Willie. He sent him presents every once in a while from “his special friend” but that was awkward, too. She didn’t quite know how to explain them to him. Uncle Des? That’s what she told him.

  “When’s the baby due?”

  “Around Christmas. Actually Christmas Day, I think. Willie’s birthday, in fact. That will be interesting for more reasons than one. Sonny is militantly antireligion.”

  He sounded a bit regretful. That was not a compliment about Allison, she felt. She didn’t quite know what to say.

  “Do you have a name for her yet?” That was neutral.

  “We think we’ll call her Katherine Kimball Sterling Shaw after Sonny’s mother; she died in an automobile accident in France when Sonny was two.”

  “Oh, yes. She was quite a famous journalist, wasn’t she?”

  “Very. One of the first women war correspondents in World War Two. Sonny worships her. Always wanted to be like her.”